


Up Where The Mountains Meet The Heavens Above

by TheLionInMyBed



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (duh), Amputation, Bad Puns, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Thangorodrim, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 08:00:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7749730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLionInMyBed/pseuds/TheLionInMyBed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A rescue isn’t a thing that simply happens to you. When someone offers you a hand it’s up to you to take it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up Where The Mountains Meet The Heavens Above

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Наверху, где горы встречаются с небесами](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13705212) by [rio_abajo_rio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rio_abajo_rio/pseuds/rio_abajo_rio)



> So sorry for quoting Holding Out For A Hero in the title and even sorrier about the hand joke in the summary.

“An eagle?” Maedhros said wearily. “Are you running out of ideas?”

“ _Maedhros_ ,” said the apparition, hopping down onto the ledge.

“It’s been some time.” Months, he thought, since last he saw it.

“It has.” Fingon, or whatever wore his shape, looked him over, jaw tightening. Maedhros ignored it; once his nakedness and the filth that covered him from head to toe might have shamed him but those days were long past. “I’m here to bring you home,” it went on, when it saw that would not rile him.

“That isn’t how it goes,” Maedhros said. “You’re supposed to be angry. Or disappointed.”

The thing just stared. It did not look much like the Fingons his mind usually conjured - too thin and worn to be the boy left behind in Valinor but not the cringing, ruined thing it amused the Enemy to taunt him with.

“I let them burn,” Maedhros told it anyway. “I made you kill them. I did it.”

“Shh. You’re shaking.” It unpinned the pale fur cloak from about its neck - that was closer to how things were supposed to go - but then spoilt it all by reaching up and attempting to drape it about his shoulders. “I have food in my pack, and bandages, but let’s see about getting you down first.” Its voice was all unsteady.

Maedhros ignored the cloak; he was familiar enough with the mental sleight of hand that transmuted unbearable cold into warmth to know it wasn't real. “You’re not listening. I did it all, it was my fault. Fingon. _Fingon_ , be rational. You need to kill me. Before they come. Please. Kill me. You have to be bored now, you have to know there’s no point in any of this, please, the Oath won’t let it end but you can, please-”

“Be calm,” it said. “Nobody is killing anyone.” A bit of scrambling brought it up the rock beside him and Maedhros had to turn his head to avoid a shower of grit and pebbles.

Hands closed about his wrist and fumbled at the shackle, turning it about, looking for a join that wasn’t there. Pain stabbed down his arm, embers stirred back into a blaze, banked even higher when his arm jerked involuntarily.

“I’m sorry,” it said.

“That won’t work. You know it won’t,” he hissed.

“Is there a key?”

“No. Melkor bent the steel about my wrist with his own hands. You watched.”

“How do I get it off then?”

“You don’t. _That’s the point_.”

It took a deep breath and he felt the exhale against his cheek. “How deep does it go into the rock? I don’t have a chisel but-”

“Deep.”

“I’d forgotten how disagreeable you can be,” it said, weary and affectionate. “Very well. You were always the clever one. What _can_ I do?”

“I already told you.”

“And I already told you, nobody is killing anyone. We could slip this off,” it said hesitantly. “If your thumb weren’t in the way.”

“You couldn’t,” Maedhros said. “They drilled into the bone.”

It made a noise and stopped examining his arm to look down at him. “Right. That’s- right. How much feeling do you have here?”

Its fingers brushed his palm and Maedhros’ hand twitched in silent answer; enough that it would hurt.

“Below the manacle.” The thing chewed at the end of one of its braids, a childish habit that the real Fingon had grown out of long ago. “I- I don’t know what else to do. I wish there was more _time_ but I can’t think and any minute they could spot us. I’d have to break your arm before I cut through.” It tried to catch Maedhros’ eye as though seeking permission.

“Do you have something to bite down on?” Maedhros said because he wouldn’t give it the pleasure of playing along with the charade that he had any choice. And if it _was_ Fingon, if, _if_ -

“Do you trust me?”

“I’m sure I’m in safe hands,” he said and laughed. Once it had him, the mirth would not let him go, shaking him like a dog with a rabbit. It pressed down upon his chest so that he could not draw breath and tore at his arm but what difference did it make if he was about to lose it anyway? The thing was trying to quiet him but why _should_ he be quiet for some figment of his imagination? What was there to do but laugh?

His voice cracked and gave out and then he was only shaking, still unable to stop.

It had avoided touching him directly - the hallucinations usually did - but now it hopped down from its perch and went up on its tiptoes, pressing against him, one hand about his free wrist, one reaching up towards his face. Maedhros tried to pull away but there was nowhere to go and he only succeeded in cracking his head against the rock. It released him and stepped back as much as the ledge allowed for, features twisted into a mask of concern.

“ _Stop it_ ,” he snapped. “Just get on with it. Do what you came to do.”

He was glad it wasn’t truly Fingon. The Enemy’s servants had already seen the worst of him, watched him scream and rave and grovel in his own filth. It had smelt like Fingon though - he could not remember if it usually did - and its braids had been soft where they weren’t scratchy with gold wire.

 _Be practical_ , he scolded himself. None of that was important. What mattered was the knife at its belt. If he could keep his hand steady long enough then this could all be over.

Trying not to be too obvious, he watched as it climbed back up to its perch beside his wrist. “Enough torque will do it,” it said, sounding unsure, carefully not touching him. “It will hurt though.”

Maedhros barely stifled another laughing fit. “No doubt,” he said.

It drew the knife - _the knife_ \- and cut a strip from the hem of its tunic and handed it down. After a moment’s hesitation he wadded it up and bit down on it - no sense in losing a hand and a tongue both.

The eagle was still out there, circling. It could not be one of Manwë’s. Just a bird. Just a trick of perspective. He watched it anyway.

He heard the snap and felt a twisting wrench but the pain was a long time in coming. His breath came harder and sweat pricked at his temples but they’d broken bones before and he was sure he kept the hurt from off his face.

“Are you well?” said the thing. It might have said it more than once. “We’ll need a tourniquet for the rest, I think. Is that right?”

Maedhros bit down harder and ignored it. He wasn’t going to help it keep him from bleeding to death. It shrugged and unbuckled its belt, clinging to the rock face one handed.

“Hold this for me while I tie it off?” it said, eyes wide and guileless, and offered up the knife.

A trick. It had to be a trick. Why offer- Why would- _Why_?

He took the blade with a hand that shook less from pain than uncertainty. The knife’s handle was wrapped in sharkskin, rough and _real_ beneath his fingers. The blade looked very sharp.

They’d given him weapons before; as orchestrated parodies of escape; to offer proof of concept against their experimental monstrosities; so that he might dispose of subjects broken past the point where they were salvageable. That amused them most but if he did not do it then their dying would take days. Weeks. Months. How long had it taken _him_ to die? Even then he’d not thought that he might want to. He’d had a purpose still, something to offer his people, however small the mercy.

When had he given up?

It was not pain that had broken him but knowing what little purpose his life served, that his brothers and his friends saw no point in rescue, that his enemies saw no point in further torture.

Don’t hesitate, he knew better than to hesitate but they’d given him the knife and did they _want_ him dead? Would that further their plans somehow?

The belt about his arm was pulled tight, his own weight was dragging at the break and it felt as if the bones were lined with molten lead, he couldn’t _think_ -

“There,” said the thing with Fingon’s face. “I’ll be as quick as I- _breath_ Maedhros. Slowly. Look at me, look, I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere. Good, that’s good. Give that here.” It held out its hand.

It was not Fingon and this was not salvation. There would be no mercy that he did not contrive for himself.

And yet.

 _And yet_.

They’d been right to call him weak and foolish, and he deserved every scrap of pain to come because he did not know how to let go. Because Maedhros gave him back the knife.

“This will all be over soon,” it lied, its fingers rough against his cheek.

The eagle banked into a turn, broad wings slicing through the air. There were not many birds that braved the mountain’s ash. There was not much to hunt. Why had it come?

The knife was sharp. He told himself it hardly hurt. The circulation was so poor that the blood came only in thin spurts and he tried to concentrate on the sticky, tickling feeling of it running down his arm towards his elbow, to block out everything else.

It was fine. He’d been through worse. He was sure that he had.

Tendons gave with snaps so loud they seemed to echo from the peaks and the recoil shuddered down his arm.

It was fine.

It never helped to look but he couldn’t see the eagle anymore, couldn’t block it out, and so he turned his head. The knife was in the gap between the bones now, grating against the broken edges while the skin stretched like an empty stocking.

The thing’s face was wet and there was a fine freckling of blood across one cheekbone. It did not pause to wipe it away but Sauron hated to be soiled by his materials. Sauron could make a neater cut than-

“Almost,” said Fin- said- said-

Maedhros did not see as the last shreds of flesh gave way. The thing had him by the arm but its hand was bloody-slick and its grip was surprisingly weak.

The world lurched alarmingly. He- fell? The thing shouted and something slammed across his chest, pinning him back against the wall but nothing was supporting his right arm and the pain of that was worse than anything before had been.

Things became very indistinct for a time.

There was a ledge beneath the place he hung, close enough his toes would almost reach it if he stretched. The thing had alighted there, and those others that had come before it. He had never touched it. When he came back to himself he was lying upon it, with Fingon or whatever wore his form crouched beside him. The rag in his mouth tasted of bile and if he’d had anything more to vomit up he might have choked on it. “I’m sorry,” the thing said. “I didn’t think this through at all. Are you- oh!” It reached for his face again but he lacked the strength to recoil, or even bite when it stuck its bloody fingers in his mouth. It drew out the cloth, balled it up and tossed it over the the edge, out into nothing. “Can you hear me? Please say something. Be as scathing as you’d like, I’m sure it’s warranted.”

Maedhros retched again and Fingon turned his head to the side so that the thin bile drooled out upon the rocks. He could move himself no more than he could have upon the cliff - really all that had changed was his orientation. That and the pain. He’d thought himself inured to it, the constant burning ache in his dislocated shoulder, the wet chafing of his wrist against the shackle, the sores from the raw press of stone against his back, the thirst and the headaches and the constant, constant gnawing in his gut. He had been very wrong. It ran through him now like something alive, something active and vindictive and utterly overwhelming, tearing into the ruined joint, chewing at his wrist, pressing down upon his chest so that he could not fill his lungs. His heart was unsteady, fluttering and stuttering and he wished it would just stop.

“I have water,” said the thing. “But that’s no good now. Should I elevate your arm? Or your feet? Or both? I don’t remember, you were always better at this. There’s still so much blood, I don’t know if the tourniquet is working, should I- Could- _Please_ , tell me what- Maedhros, I don’t know what to do.”

“Stop panicking,” he said. The words came hard but it felt a miracle that they came at all.

“Yes,” said Fingon, with a hiccuping laugh. “Yes. I will, I promise. Tell me.”

Sauron asked for opinions but never for instruction. “Arm up,” he managed. “Bandages. Pressure. You know this.” Fingon had attended the same lectures on anatomy- Sauron knew cardiovascular systems like the back of his- Maedhros barely choked back another laughing fit, one he did not think he would survive.  

Fingon - not Fingon - eased his arm around so that it stretched out above his head, propped upon something he couldn’t see, and the pain in his shoulder retreated a little, settling back down into the familiar, dull throb he had learnt to bear.

His hand still hung from the shackle. Maedhros had only to turn his head a little to see it and then he could not look away, even as whatever Fingon was doing to his wrist sent fresh agony shooting down his arm. It did not look like something that belonged to him, paler than he knew himself to be, the nails grown long and jagged, the fingers crooked as though beckoning him back.

Fingon moved around and blocked his view. “It’s done, I think,” he said. “The bleeding’s all but stopped. What now? Maedhros, look at me. What now?”

It did help, to be made to think.

“Get it down,” he said. Much sorcery could be worked with blood and flesh was even better. Whoever this was, whatever their reason, they would not want to leave it.

Fingon shuddered and did not look at his hand. “I will. But not now. Are you warm enough?” He fidgeted, smoothing the nap of the fur cloak Maedhros was still wrapped in. “Could you drink?”

There were no drugs or poisons - or at least none that could be safely stored in the proffered waterskin - that were likely to make his situation significantly worse and so he nodded. Fingon helped him sit or, rather, did all the work of sitting for him, and held the flask to his lips when his hands- his hand shook too badly.

It probably was water and Fingon seemed inclined to give him all he wanted but Maedhros pushed it aside after only a few swallows - one of them had to be responsible. It was difficult when his mouth felt no less dry and every breath rasping like a file within his throat but he had done harder things and knew well enough what too much water after too long deprived would do to a body.

“Let me know if you want more,” Fingon - had he decided that? - said, stoppering the flask and tucking it away. He had arranged things so that Maedhros was propped against his chest, right arm draped over his shoulder for support.

Maedhros could pretend that he was merely playing along with this new game. The thing that held him was warm and Maedhros was cold, had been cold for a very long time. He wasn’t strong enough to move away. “Fingon,” he said carefully.

“ _Yes_ ,” said his companion, sounding far too pleased to hear that name in his mouth.

“You jumped. From the eagle down onto the ledge.”

“Yes.” Fingon smiled, bright and sudden as sunlight caught on the edge of a blade. “I wasn’t sure if you saw - it was a good forty feet.”

“How did you plan on remounting?”

“ _Ah_. Well.” He went to chew one of his braids again and quickly spat it out; it was damp with Maedhros’ blood. “Perhaps if Thorondor flies beneath us and we leap out we might land upon his back.”

“‘ _Might_ ’?”

“I didn’t say it was a _good_ plan. If you find this rescue so very disagreeable, I can leave you here for some other gallant to save,” Fingon said and then frowned as though fearing he had gone too far. “You know I did not mean that.”

“They’ll be tripping over themselves. I’m not even a second hand damsel now.”

“I really will leave you,” Fingon said, tired and sad and very fond.

It hurt. By all the gods he had forsworn, it hurt worse than losing an arm but Maedhros looked up into that foreign, familiar face and said, “No. You won’t,” and let himself believe it.

**Author's Note:**

> If the first aid seems inaccurate, that is _deliberate_ , Fingon has no idea what he's doing and Mae can be excused by virtue of not being in the best place mentally/kinda wanting to be dead (ok lbr I have no idea what I'm doing either)
> 
> I'm on tumblr [here](http://thelioninmybed.tumblr.com), come say hi!


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